


A Life Worth Living

by smangtheterrible



Category: Achilles and Patroclus, Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, Smut, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smangtheterrible/pseuds/smangtheterrible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through love and loss, these are snapshots of the relationship between Patroclus and Achilles in their time living in Phthia.<br/>-----<br/>Achilles smiled for the first time in what seemed ages. “Its an apology fig cake Acontes made for you. He swears he knows nothing about baking, but I must say, this is the best cake I have ever eaten. Granted it's not the most attractive thing I've ever seen.”<br/>Patroclus flopped his hand out expectantly, then winced. Achilles, his mouth twitching, helped him to sit upright, then sat next to him and placed a bit of the cake into his mouth. Patroclus chewed, and considered.<br/>“That is really good. That totally makes up for shooting me with an arrow. Where is that son of a bitch?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Achilles was lounging, lyre in his lap, and he was passive aggressively making a statement that also served to get underneath the skin of anyone unfortunate enough to be in hearing distance. Patroclus was the only recipient present, and he was slowly seething, the tension building in the room a palpable thing.

The nimble long fingers of Achilles were playing the most discordant notes possible, drawing them out like one would a splinter, a screeching sound not unlike that of a cat dying that Patroclus did not think was even possible from an instrument so delicate in tone. Patroclus knew exactly why he was doing it; it had started out mildly enough, slowly building into a crescendo to test him on how much he could take. He paused now, and the room was blessed with silence for the space of two heartbeats. Patroclus closed his eyes, knowing it was coming. Achilles began to strum mercilessly, notes screaming, his fingers flying as though he was attempting to beat the lyre into submission until Patroclus could not take it anymore.

"Achilles, for the love of the Gods, will you _please_ shut the fuck up."

For once, to his surprise, the prince complied, tossing the instrument lightly but carefully into his bed clothes before leaping upright, a frown creasing the elegant lines of his face.

"The walls of this wretched place shall destroy me ere I become a man. Aren't you _bored_?"

"I'm reading."

"You haven't turned a leaf in a quarter of an hour."

"And whose fault is that, I wonder?"

Achilles came to stand behind him, hovering over, running his hands through the boy's curly hair so it puffed out the way Patroclus hated. "Come, let us venture. We can race down to the beach!"

Patroclus ducked his head and swatted him away, tamping down his hair. Books were worth their weight in gold, as they were painstakingly rendered by hand, and as such only the prominent and the wealthy had access to the tomes and scrolls of the palace. What Achilles took for granted Patroclus had become enamoured with since he had been given access as the Prince's _Hetaroi_ , much to Achilles' dismay.

"It's going to rain," he said in answer.

"So?"

Patroclus ignored him. Achilles was now digging his fingers underneath Patroclus' ribs from behind, causing Patroclus to inhale sharply. He reached and grabbed Achilles' wrist, but the boy twisted out of his grip.

"I am not your dog, nor your jester. You've been like a thorn in my shoe all morning." Achilles was still dancing beside him unheeded, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

"Come out, Patroclus."

"I don't want to."

Achilles was poking him now, dancing around him like a child, his arm whipping out like a snake striking to dig unsuspectingly into various body parts faster than Patroclus could fend him off. He was testing him and Patroclus knew it, knew he was fast reaching his breaking point. Patroclus could hear the sea roaring in his ears as he stood abruptly and lashed out at the boy, knocking his chair over in the process. For once, he was faster, and his fist made contact with Achilles' firm stomach, causing all of the air to leave him, and he made a soft unsuspecting _Oof_ in surprise.

"Will you fuck off?!" Patroclus yelled without thinking.

Their eyes met for a heartbeat, and he registered the absolutely blank expression on Achilles face, before he turned abruptly and walked out of the room, leaving the door gaping. Patroclus sat down again, the blood rushing in his ears, finding he was breathing hard. The room was ringing in silence as he pictured Achilles running through the palace like a breath of wind, as fast as he could, hurtling down the stairs and out onto the grounds, heels kicking up mud and dirt, wind tearing at his clothes and his golden hair.

 _I hate that little prick_ , he thought. His first coherent feeling was one of regret.

When Patroclus went down to dinner, he scanned the hall for him, but Achilles was not there. He knew he was punishing him, knew he knew he would worry, yet worry he did. He ducked out of the hall before anyone saw him, knowing it would be less conspicuous of they were both absent, rather than receive curious glances all throughout the meal. He headed instead to the kitchens where he swiped bread and cheese, before making his way through the halls and out of the gates onto the palace grounds. It had rained since, and the air was fresh and cool with it. He pictured Achilles soaked to the skin somewhere, obstinantly walking among the trees. He ate his bread, hating the control the boy had over him, hating the fact that his thoughts could not leave him alone when he did something like this. It was not the first time. He half expected to see him coming out of the gloom towards him like a ghost, but when he finished his food, and the rain began to start misting down again, he gave up and returned to their rooms.

Achilles did not make a dramatic entrance, or at least there was no loud banging of doors. One moment he was not there, the next he was, filling the room with the smell of damp and earth, hair turned backwater grey from the wet. He was streaked with mud and looked a wild thing, untamed. He crossed the room swiftly to Patroclus who reached out to him without thinking. Achilles took two bunched handfuls of his chiton in his hands and squeezed like his life depended on it, thudding his head twice against Patroclus' chest like it was a wall he could not walk through.

“What is it? What?” Patroclus broke the silence, his voice sounded loud in the room. _You dramatic pisspot._ He just had time to reach up and entangle a twig from the boy's lank sopping hair before Achilles was pulling away, not looking at him, and then he was gone, vanished into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him quietly. Patroclus clenched his empty hands that a moment ago had held Achilles' forearms, and stared straight ahead.

That was the first night he slept in the bed of Patroclus. Achilles emerged, warm and dry, and climbed onto the tiny cot as if he had been doing it all along, wedging himself along the darker boy's body, and before Patroclus could say anything, he sighed deeply as if all the air was suddenly deflating from him. Achilles was pressed up against him, the length of his clothed body molded along his, but his arm that was closest to Patroclus was bent at the elbow next to his face, and just his little finger was resting on Patroclus' bare arm; the tiniest touch of skin. Patroclus could feel it like a burning brand.

“Why must you always test me so?” Patroclus spoke into the darkness. He heard Achilles open his mouth to reply, but it was several moments before he spoke.

“I am scared one day it will be too much. That you will leave.”

Patroclus turned onto his side so he could see him.

“You are afraid a snake will bite, so you poke it with a stick to see how much it will take?”

Achilles' eyes looked glassy in the dimness. His lips parted again, but this time no sound came out.

“I'm not going anywhere, “ Patroclus whispered. He watched Achilles' throat bob as he swallowed. “One would think I would harbour that fear, not you. I have more to lose,” he continued.

“That's not true!” Achilles turned his head to look quickly over at him only then, his hair falling across his face. Patroclus gave him a pointed look. “You are the Prince,” he said simply. He reached up and brushed the strand back.

“I am sorry,” Achilles whispered. “For earlier.”

“Me too,” Patroclus said, and meant it.

The next night Achilles made his way to Patroclus' side, and the next, and the next.

It was always Patroclus' significantly smaller bed that they shared, mashed together, lines blurring, and it was always after dark that Achilles stole into his bed, often after Patroclus had begun to drift off, as if the other boy was afraid of rejection. They never spoke of it until one night some weeks later when Patroclus, bating his breath, crept into Achilles bed instead while he was in the bathroom and waited, heart pounding, for him to emerge. When he did, he froze in the midst of toweling his face dry, staring.

Patroclus swallowed. “This is better, is it not?”

Achilles hung the towel over his chair and lifted the covers, climbed into bed, and blew out the lamp before speaking. Patroclus' heart was pounding in his ears the entire time.

“No, you have robbed me of my excuse to be close to you,” he said to the ceiling from the other side of the bed . Patroclus felt the chasm of cold space between them like they were standing on opposite sides of a ravine. He turned over onto his stomach and reached under the covers, staring at the boy's profile outlined against the window. His fingers crept along until they met the warm flesh of his arm, leagues away it seemed. Achilles jumped as though he had been burned.

“You don't need an excuse,” Patroclus whispered, and pulled, drawing the boy to him. Achilles rolled over and into his arms like he was coming home. He sighed into Patroclus' hair. “Your fingers are cold,” he said, his voice low. Patroclus felt him wedge a leg possessively between his own, and smiled. He kissed his brow without thinking about it. It was very dark in the room, and he felt rather than saw Achilles rise up onto an elbow, evaluating him. Patroclus felt his heart begin to pound, wondering if for once he had overstepped his bounds. Although Achilles had crawled into _his_ bed at first, so.

He need not have worried. He felt Achilles lower himself dreadfully slowly, until he was a breath away. His lips pressed softly to the corner of his mouth, a delicate press, before pulling away. _No wait come back, you missed,_ he thought, and his hand unconsciously went to grip the back of that long familiar neck. Achilles repeated the gesture on the other side, a fraction closer to the center of his mouth this time. He could hear the sound of his tongue separating from the roof of his mouth as he kissed him again, his lips soft and dry, until they were parting his gently, and the warm wet of his tongue was across the threshold of his mouth. He met it with his own with a tiny swipe, but before he could taste it again, Achilles was turning his head to seal his lips firmly to his.

The warmth of his mouth was overwhelming. He was surrounded by his scent, his warm weight pressing down on him, and Patroclus smoothed his hands over hard expanses of warm muscle, revelling in the delight of touching, feeling that beautiful body that he had so longed for. Heat flared along his skin as their mouths moved against each other, and Patroclus found him wishing they could do this forever. Achilles had his lower lip between his own now and was doing great and terrible things to it that made Patroclus groan. Achilles released him with a wet swipe, and Patroclus rolled to the right. Achilles submitted, and he found himself above the boy; their roles reversed. Patroclus bit gently at his jaw before taking the rim of his ear into his mouth and sucking gently, eliciting a gasp of surprise. He noticed Achilles was now riggling uncomfortably, and he returned to press his lips to his again, grinning. Patroclus felt very warm, his own arousal growing insistent. Achilles' hands were fumbling awkwardly over his body. They traced delicately over his stomach and Patroclus twitched, curving his body away, his abdominal muscles clenching.

“It tickles there,” he said against his lips. The boys hands came to rest on his hips, just a fraction low, as if hinting for permission. They were looking at each other now, a hairs breadth apart, both sensing this to be the moment they either slowed, or continued to other ends.

 “Okay?” Achilles breathed.

“Okay,” Patroclus whispered. “You?”

Achilles nodded once.

Patroclus' hand moved down his thigh, before his fingers skated up and over, feeling the soft hair at his groin, before he rubbed his fingers between the crease at his inner thigh, purposefully avoiding. Achilles let out a high note of consternation as he heard him swallow. Patroclus ran his fingers up and down before at last taking his hard length into his hand. He felt his back arch as he began to stroke him, trailing his hand over his testicles to hold them gently in his palm, feeling with his thumb. The scent radiating between them now was heady and strong, and it made his cock throb. He had been working saliva into his mouth and he spit into his hand before resuming his stroking, slowly picking up the pace. He had been nervous before but he found now that this came naturally, that he was enjoying tremendously the effect he was creating. Achilles was writhing above him now.

“If you don't stop-” the rest of the sentence remained hanging in the air pointedly.

“I have no intention to.”

 “That's good,” Achilles gasped, and began to come. Patroclus couldn't help but place his other hand on the boys stomach to feel his muscles contracting. He couldn't see his face clearly and he wished that he could, before he remembered that they could do this again and again and that he would have plenty of times to see his expression. He could hear him however, and that was enough to send another throb to his groin. Achilles followed it through with gentle rocking of his hips which Patroclus found ridiculously erotic. When he had stopped shuddering, he felt him turn over onto his belly with a groan and rise up onto his knees, pushing Patroclus down into the bedclothes.

“My turn,” he said into the darkness.

 


	2. Chapter 2

In hindsight there were a myriad of details that if perhaps had not occurred in the order that they had, or had not occurred at all would not have led to the sequence of events that took place. A fine delicate web of details, that perhaps, if missing one thread, things would not have proceeded accordingly. If the spring hunt had been postponed due to inclement weather and the skies that night were not dazzlingly clear, for instance. If they were not a days ride from Phthia, deep in the forests of the north, it might not have been such an issue. If Leontes had not snuck three jugs of wine, waggling his eyebrows at Patroclus when he showed his hidden treasure in his saddlebags when they arrived at camp that evening, things most definitely would have taken a different turn. But all of this did transpire, the hunt had gone ahead, and four young men were now dancing around a fire with all the subtlety of those under increasing levels of inebriation.

Acontes had brought his whittled flute and the high notes were rising with the sparks of the flames that flew up to the heavens.

The remainder of the hunting party was asleep several minutes walk away, preparing to rise at daybreak to commence the hunt. The four friends however, were doing vastly irresponsible and stupid things in the light of the bonfire they had lit, relishing in the delight of being away from the castle and their responsibilities.

Achilles was sitting cross legged, his voice rising over the twiddling notes of the flute to be heard. The rest of them were snorting with increasingly drunken laughter.

“That Acontes, you want to stay clear of him. Isn't right in the head,” he was saying. Acontes only blew louder on his flute, causing the notes to shriek and fail.

“The man is nuts, absolutely stark raving. He once ate a whole pomegranate in one go without stopping, chonk chonk chonk, like an apple. Right through the rind."

“There are worse crimes than eating pomegranate skins, Achilles!” Leontes cried. He had a bit of dried meat balanced on a slice of bread in the flat palm of his hand, and appeared to be doing a strange energetic interpretive dance while attempting to consume the morsel at the same time.

“It was _not_ a pomegranate, I heard it was an entire jug of olive oil. He drank it down like water.” Patroclus said. The others gagged.

“Euch!”

Acontes stopped playing, lowering the flute to speak. “It was not a pomegranate, it was an entire leg of lamb at my cousin's wedding.”

The others collapsed into laughter, Achilles falling backwards to lie on the cool earth.

“There was a bit of a dare involved,” Acontes continued. The howling laughter continued.

“Did you spit out the hooves?” Patroclus asked.

Acontes merely smiled slowly, the corners of his lips turning up mischievously, and brought the flute back up to his lips.

 

Things dissolved from there, becoming more drunkenly and more rowdy.

Soon Patroclus found himself talked into throwing dried figs into the air for Acontes to shoot without quite knowing how it had come to this.

“I got one!” Acontes yelled, dropping his bow.

“How would you know, it is black as pitch and you cannot see a thing,” Achilles said.

“I know when I have hit my mark. I can feel it.”

“Yeah, can you also feel where your arrows have landed, because you are going to be barren for the hunt tomorrow,” Patroclus said.

“You know what your problem is, Patroclus? You sound like my mother all the fucking time.”

“Well its a shame her common sense seems to have skipped a generation,” Patroclus said over his shoulder as he moved off into the trees. “I have to piss,” he added vaguely.

He could hear their voices rising as they challenged each other. A little drunkenly he stumbled through the brush in the direction Acontes' last arrow had fallen, and as he relieved himself he spied it sticking out of the earth. Grinning to himself, he plucked it up. Now that he had found one, he wanted to find more. If he had been sober he would have given this up until morning, hunting for arrows in the dark, but in his inebriated state it seemed important to find the evidence of their merrymaking now before daybreak, as he felt residual guilt over what they were doing. Somehow if he found all the arrows he could pretend this night never happened, and have a clear conscience.

 

Back at the camp, the competition was escalating, as Acontes boasted his archery skills underneath the high heavens, and the other boys fed his drunken ego by egging him on, challenging him to tests of skill that even sober were laughingly ridiculous. Achilles lay back into the earth, head spinning a bit, mind blessedly blank as the other two bickered a few feet away. Like all inebriated youth, a lapse of memory was all it took, and for a moment, a brief moment, they all forgot about Patroclus in the trees.

Leontes challenged him to hit a branch at the edge of the clearing, and Acontes let fly at precisely the wrong moment.

There was a strange choking noise, and Acontes dropped his bow, his eyes going wide. Achilles sat up and twisted round. Patroclus was standing at the edge of the clearing, Acontes' arrow clasped in his hand. Another sprouted from his breast.

“No,” Achilles said flatly. Time seemed to freeze. Then Patroclus collapsed to his knees, and Achilles flew up and ran forward. Patroclus was down before he could get there. Achilles was screaming _no, no_ now. Leontes was at his side. Patroclus' eyes were wide like a frightened deer, the whites showing even in the dim light.

“He's going into shock,” Leontes said flatly. He looked up at Acontes, who looked equally pale, standing there frozen. They were all suddenly quite sober. “Acontes, rouse the others.”

When the boy did not move, he called again. “Acontes, hurry!”

He came out of his trance and took off through the trees, tripping over his own feet in his haste.

Achilles' hands were scrabbling helplessly over his chest. Patroclus gripped his arm suddenly. “Don't pull it out,” he gasped.

“I'm not going to pull it out, you festering dung heap!” Achilles yelled at him, sheer panic edging his voice. “Just shut up!”

  


Patroclus had fallen out of a tree once when he was seven and broken his arm. That was nothing to the pain he felt now. He was aware he was surrounded by many people, their voices rising and falling like the tide. Through a haze he heard Achilles' raised voice as he and the huntmaster exchanged choice words. Both were yelling at each other, Achilles' voice shrill in defense rising above the older man's sharp gruffness. He felt rather than saw Achilles leave his side and a resounding irrational panic took him suddenly. He did not know he called for him, but suddenly he was there again beside him. Warm hands were on his brow, moving through his hair soothingly.

 _I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere_ , he heard.

It seemed like much time had passed, and Patroclus had naught but the view above him to distract him. The stars were very bright tonight, and he forced himself to focus on them, on the images above, heroes and beasts favoured by the gods and granted a place in the heavens as remembrance for their deeds. To the east, the moon was just rising, pale and luminous.

After several lifetimes had passed, he felt himself being lifted, and the jostling brought a wave of pain so intense he thought he might pass out. Just as soon it had passed; then to his surprise he found himself rising up to the skies. The trees were moving around him, moving past him, black cut outs of foliage like puppets on sticks in a child's play: the illusion of movement going past while he remained stationary. Everything was moving around him while he remained a fixed point. It took him some moments to realise it was indeed him moving, not the trees, that he was being borne on a hastily constructed litter on the backs of four men out of that place. The pain came in waves, blotting everything else out, consuming him, exhausting him as every little jostle brought fresh waves of agony. His world narrowed down to just that, a red tunnel of suffering, and he closed his eyes on the stars wheeling overhead.

They were marching through the night, parting the curtain of blackness like swimmers in a sea of ink. They were marching across all of Greece, across the whole world, and the night stretched on and on, endlessly, forever. Patroclus opened his eyes many times to find the arrow still protruding from him, pinning him to the surface beneath him, a moth stuck to a card, wings outstretched, reaching in futile for a place where pain did not exist.

He felt something draining from him, slowly at first, but as the night progressed he became more aware of it and knew it to be more than blood. He became suddenly aware of his own mortality, and with this a great fear overtook him with such completeness that he became lucid. With every lasting ounce of energy he possessed he cried for the litter to stop. He knew he was dying.

He felt himself being lowered to the ground. He was surrounded by faces, some he knew well, others not so much. Patroclus heaved himself upright so that he was sitting, and willed himself not to pass out, and felt for the first time how tight his chest was where they had bound it all the way around. He did not remember them doing that.

“Bring me a horse and I shall ride to the city gates, or bury me here. I cannot take this any more.”

“We thought it best to keep you level to prevent blood loss, _kúrios_ _._ We did not think you would survive the trip on horseback.”

“I fear I shall not survive the trip either way, I would rather make haste.”

“I will take him,” a familiar voice said at his side. Achilles' eyes were boring into his own. Acontes was at his side too, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Patroclus,” he was saying. He took his hand, and Patroclus squeezed weakly. “Patroclus, I am so very sorry...forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Patroclus said, attempting to smile and having it come out more as a grimace most likely. “You owe me a bushel of pomegranates,” he whispered to his friend. Then Achilles, his beloved Achilles was lifting him, supporting him; they all were, and somehow he was upright, and the pain was overwhelming, it was in his ribs, wrapping around him like a terrible embrace. Somehow he was being lifted up onto a towering mountain suspended in space, but it was alright, Achilles was up there too, and then the mountain below them was moving, they were moving, and Achilles' strong arms were around him, holding him there, and they were flying over the earth.

He heard Achilles speaking to him but he could not for the life of him know what it was he said. At long last the pain rose up and took him mercilessly, and he succumbed gratefully, his head lolling, and Achilles shouted and urged the horse faster into the night.

Achilles arrived at the house of Meredes just as the sun was rising. He pulled Patroclus off the exhausted animal and into his arms and battered at the door with his foot as his arms were full and he did not want to put him down, alternately yelling for the woman. Fortunately the house of healing was used to strangers kicking their doors down at strange hours of the morning and the head healer emerged with haste, and bid him to enter and lay him down on a fresh cot. Behind her stood a young woman some years older than Achilles with a sharp alert gaze. Meredes felt for a pulse, and Achilles stood there, arms hanging limply at his sides, bereft. The words were on the tip of his tongue yet he could not bring himself to ask. Fortunately he did not have to. After a moment that seemed to stretch forever, Meredes looked quickly over her shoulder at him.

“He is not dead,” she said, as she released him and quickly tied her long grey hair back. “It is good you did not remove the arrow. You have done well, my prince,” She said as she began to remove the binding. “I'm going to first make an incision to enlarge the entry site. We can then feel if the head is lodged in bone, which I suspect it is.”

Achilles wanted to tell the woman to stop talking and focus on the work, but he found her calm assured words had a soothing effect on him. Everything went well until she probed a finger down the shaft into the wound to feel for the depth of the tip.

Patroclus twitched and let out a wretched cry at the intrusion, for surely the digging of her fingers had breached his consciousness with great pain.

“Hold him!” Meredes said sharply, and the woman at her side stepped forward to help. Together they held Patroclus down as Meredes grabbed a strange wire loop and used it to grasp the arrowhead. “It is lodged in the rib as I suspected,” she said as she worked. “He is very lucky.”

She held out her hand into which the woman readily placed a small pot of ointment. She measured out some of the oil, and gently pried open Patroclus' clenched jaw to place it under his tongue.

“Damalis,” she said to the woman, looking up, and together without speaking they got into position. They had obviously done this many times. Meredes ran her finger down the shaft again to grasp the arrow head and ensure it was removed in its entirety, while the woman called Damalis grasped the wire contraption. Together with a strong yank they pulled on the arrow. It held fast and Patroclus let out a groan.

“Again,” Meredes said. This time they were successful, and the arrow drew free. Achilles let out a breath he hadn't realised he held. Together the two women treated the wound with salves to promote blood clot, ward off infection, and then bound his chest tightly with bandages.

“It is up to him now,” Meredes said gently. “You should get some rest. Damalis will watch over him,”

When Meredes had left, Achilles sank down onto the floor next to the cot, his back against the wall, and found his entire body was shaking violently as if he was wracked with cold. He leaned over and vomited onto the earthen floor, emptying his stomach’s contents. A flagon of cool water appeared before him, and he took it from Damalis gratefully.

  


The first thing Patroclus became aware of was a throbbing pain in his consciousness, and the urge to flee from that pain again was very strong. But then he remembered Achilles and he desperately needed to know where he was; so much so that he forced his eyes open which took a tremendous effort. It took several moments to understand his surroundings: he was in a simple room he did not recognise, and the setting sun was slanting through a low window. He was lying on his back and his butt and lower back hurt tremendously as well, as though he had been lying here for some time, but he knew turning onto his side was probably not the best idea.

He then became aware of a weight beside him, and saw a familiar riot of golden curls splayed on the cot next to his legs. Their owner's face was not visible; it appeared to be mashed into his covers. Achilles was resting on one arm that was folded on the cot, soundly asleep.

 _I cannot believe Acontes shot me with a fucking arrow_ was the next thought that passed through his mind. He closed his eyes again.

 

 

Achilles was picking despondently at fig cake when he happened to glance at Patroclus and saw that his eyes were open into thin suspicious slits. Achilles' eyes widened in surprise and he put his slice down and slid off his chair onto his knees to kneel next to him. Before he could say anything, Patroclus spoke.

“You look like shit,” he said, his eyes roaming over the boys face. Achilles opened his mouth, but he still didn't know what to say. Patroclus slid his eyes to the small table next to his bed where a very large lumpy cake rested, leaning disturbingly to the left. “What is that?”

Achilles smiled for the first time in what seemed ages. “Its an apology fig cake Acontes made for you. He swears he knows nothing about baking, but I must say, this is the best cake I have ever eaten. Granted it's not the most attractive thing I've ever seen.”

Patroclus flopped his hand out expectantly, then winced. Achilles, his mouth twitching, helped him to sit upright, then sat next to him and placed a bit of the cake into his mouth. Patroclus chewed, and considered.

“That is really good. That totally makes up for shooting me with an arrow. Where is that son of a bitch?”

“He was here earlier when he brought the cake. He also brought you a plate from the feast, in case you woke up.”

“Mm!” Patroclus said, making grabby hands. Achilles put the cake aside, and picked up the covered plate. “The hunt went on, I take it?”

“Yes, our stupidity was not enough to cancel it.”

“On a scale of one to our hides are toast, how much trouble are we in?”

Achilles mouth twisted. “Just focus on healing.”

“That bad, huh?”

Achilles lowered the plate onto the table, then ducked his head. Patroclus stopped chewing, knowing instantly. “Don't,” he said carefully.

As if he was melting, Achilles crawled onto the tiny cot with him and burrowed his face into his stomach, hugging his waist tightly.

“I was so scared,” the muffled words came. “I've never been so scared. Don't ever leave me.”

“You didn't do anything to Acontes, did you?”

“Will you stop joking for one minute?!”

“I'm not joking, I am genuinely concerned you kicked the shit out of Acontes!”

Achilles sat up and stared at him, his eyes damp. He looked so sad.

“Come here,” Patroclus said quietly. Achilles moved closer, until they were face to face. Patroclus extended his neck, and pressed his lips to his gently, then did it again.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he said, their eyes boring into each others. Then Patroclus' gaze flicked sideways to the plate resting on the table. Achilles sat back, smiling, and picked up the plate for him.


	3. Chapter 3

The prince of Phthia was hunched over his reading, two fingers pressed into each temple. His golden hair was falling over his face, hiding his expression, yet Patroclus knew it to be one of distaste. He knew how much Achilles did not care for philosophy. He had been assigned the same reading, and had dutifully finished it two hours ago. He was now enjoying his free time by doing absolutely nothing. The late afternoon sun was coming through the window of their shared room in the palace, and the golden light was hitting Patroclus' bed, making him sleepy. His arm was over his eyes to block out the light, and he was just drifting off when he felt the bed dip as Achilles climbed over him on all fours. He had not heard him get up, he had moved with his familiar stealth across the room.

"No," Patroclus said without removing his arm from his eyes. "You have work to do."

Achilles let out a petulant whine. He could feel him lower his body over Patroclus as he began to nuzzle beneath his chin much like an overgrown cat.

"Achilles," he said in a warning tone. Achilles in answer began to rub his groin lightly against Patroclus', the thin layers of their chitons the only thing separating their skin. He felt Achilles strong fingers grasp his wrist and try to remove his arm, yet Patroclus resisted, pressing his arm back as hard as he could. They struggled for a moment, Achilles childishly trying to pull it off before letting go, getting other ideas. Patroclus felt his hands push the fabric of his chiton up to his chest, felt his long hands smooth themselves over his belly. Patroclus squirmed and twisted away, grabbing for his hands.

“You never let me touch you here,” Achilles complained, his hands resting on his stomach.

“It is too sensitive there, it tickles.”

“Please let me.” Achilles' eyes were large oceans from where he could see him looking up at him . Patroclus conceded, and Achilles' hands resumed their roaming.

“Stay still!”

“Okay, okay.” Patroclus bit his lip and lay his head back as Achilles lowered his lips to his trembling stomach. Light as feathers, he brushed his lips across his taut skin in a delicate caress, which didn't help at all. Patroclus's muscles were soon rolling as he tried desperately not to giggle.

“I love your body here,” Achilles said, running a finger over his jutting bones, his concave stomach. Patroclus made a noise of distaste, but was silenced with a sharp “ _Ssss!”_

Achilles continued south, and Patroclus felt himself thickening already in anticipation, blood rushing south much to his dismay. His hands were on his thighs now, purposefully avoiding the one area between his legs that was now throbbing with want.

What Achilles did next was the last thing he expected. He bent down so all he could see of him was the top of his golden head, and he felt him lick tentatively, as if he was testing the waters with his tongue; Patroclus' whole body jerked in surprise as his head shot up abruptly to look down on what the boy was doing.

"Achilles, that's- obscene," he gasped.

"You wish me to stop?" Achilles said, looking up even as he kept his head down, every word ghosting over his sensitive skin. Patroclus only bit his lower lip again in response, eyebrows furrowing, he looked like he was suffering something particularly grievous. Gaze still boring into him, Achilles returned to what he was doing, flicking his tongue teasingly against his foreskin. Patroclus let his head fall back once more, his body going limp, giving himself over to the sensation. Below him, Achilles' tight mouth was sending electric sparks of pleasure from his cock that radiated outwards in all directions. Unconsciously, his hips began to cant, desperate for more sensation. Achilles made a sharp muffled sound between his teeth in reprimand, but Patroclus was completely losing it. A high breathy sound tore its way out of his throat without his permission, and he sighed, feeling the sensation build and build. One of his hands gripped a handful of his own dark curls, the other scrabbled for something to hold onto, something to tie him down to this planet, at last grasping the bedclothes as his body arched in a bow before lowering once again, stomach muscles clenching and releasing as he rode the sensation towards its inevitable conclusion. Little bursts of warmth were radiating out from his groin, making him begin to tremble as he hurtled towards that familiar place. He turned his head sideways and closed his eyes as if he could not bear it.

"You look so beautiful when you do that," he heard Achilles say, he must have removed his mouth momentarily, yet his hands were ceaseless, but Patroclus was not listening, he was drowning in a sea of sensation: that of silky tongue and golden limbs and strong hands holding him in place. He felt a sweat breaking out behind his knees and along his hairline as the sensation in his groin built and built like a roaring flame that threatened to engulf him. It came upon him suddenly. Patroclus bucked; his back arching as waves of pleasure overtook him, every muscle in his body taught as a lyre-string. He was aware of sound escaping his mouth. He rolled his hips, chasing the last of it as he was left with a tingling satisfaction. He collapsed back onto the mattress, breathing heavily, as if he had just run very far. Achilles was already climbing over him, latching his lips over his throat, kissing there and there and there.

"I'm not reciprocating until you finish your work," Patroclus said. He thought Achilles would perhaps punch him lightly in jest. His response was nothing further from what he expected.

Achilles froze, then clambered off him with comically great haste. He stood before him, impudent with rage, looking suddenly very young.

“You're not my father!”

“Thank the Gods, that would be beyond wrong.”

Achilles cursed him venomously, and Patroclus' eyes widened in surprise.

“Achilles,” he began tentatively, “I'm only trying to help-”

“I don't need you!” he yelled childishly, and flew out of the room.

 

 

He found him on the beach, staring out to sea. Patroclus sat down behind him a little ways.

“What I said was out of turn. I apologise. It was half in jest, anyways, I did not expect you to-  anyways, I am sorry.”

Achilles turned his head a ways so he could just make out his profile.

“I was not angry about the reciprocation. I was angry that you would presume to-”

“I know."

 


	4. Chapter 4

Patroclus' face was still burning with embarrassment on his return from the apothecary, where he had had the most uncomfortable one sided conversation of his life with the Dispenser. Apparently asking for a salve of beeswax and olive oil was a well known transparency. When the apothecary master had joked accordingly at him, Patroclus could only blush scarlet and stammer. This had led to some very new and unwanrranted knowledge of male anatomy that he saw fit to bless upon the boy, yet on the way back to their rooms, had Patroclus thinking. He was still deep in thought when he entered their room, and was therefore shocked to find Achilles returned, languidly propped up against their bedpillows. Patroclus could not help the unexpected noise of surprise which escaped him, and he hid the pot of salve behind his back before he could think better of it, immediately recognising his mistake as a predatory look instantly came over the face of Achilles.

"Where were you?" he said accusingly.

"You're back early," Patroclus replied, swallowing.

"You didn't answer my question." Achilles got up off the bed and came to stand in front of him, staring him down, eyes flicking back and forth to read his face.

Patroclus squirmed accordingly. He hated it when he did that. The other boy reached with the back of his hand to press against Patroclus' burning face. He ducked his head, and made to move past him.

"Nowher-"

WIth lightning speed, Achilles feinted, grabbing for his hands with both of his, but Patroclus instinctively turned his back on him. Achilles however had gotten one leg in between his, and Patroclus knew what would happen even before it did, it was inevitable. With well timed skill, Achilles flipped him over, bringing him down like a beetle on its back, and then he was on him.

"Don't-lie-" he said in between breaths as they struggled. "You're the worst liar I've ever known."

Patroclus had managed to hold tight to the jar of salve on his way down, but Achilles was now wrenching it out of his grasp. Patroclus let him, submitting to the inevitable. Achilles sat back on his heels, knees on either side of him as he unstoppered the jar and examined its contents, bringing it to his nose. Patroclus was unable to look at him from where he was lying on his back on the floor under him. Finally when the silence stretched he turned his head. Achilles was staring at him, smirking at him.

“You are blushing,” he stated bluntly, gleefully.

“I-no.” Patroclus stammered.

“You are.” He dipped his fingers into the balm and Patroclus opened his mouth without thinking.

“That was supposed to be-” he stopped.

“Yes?”

Patroclus kept his mouth shut. He didn't want to say it but he wanted to be the first to use the balm on Achilles. He felt he deserved it, after the humiliation he had gone through to get it.

Then his hand was around Patroclus' throat, and he was pushing his head into the floor, leaning over him, crushing his mouth to his brutally. Patroclus squirmed again, suddenly aware of how turned on he was, and this made him more angry. He wanted to make Achilles pay, beat him into submission, take control and have him fall apart under his hands.

“Sometimes I want to eat you alive,” Achilles growled into his neck. However, a slow smile was working its way onto his face, a look that Achilles could not ignore, and he pulled back to look at Patroclus.

“What?”

“I learned something.”

“What?”

“Something.”

Achilles leaned down and ran his tongue just along Patroclus' lower lip, a slow swipe. He still had him pinned, and he took this opportunity to make for his left eye, smirking. Patroclus had half a mind to close his lid a second before Achilles' tongue swiped across it.

“Pleccht!” Patroclus exclaimed and wrenched his wrist out of the boy's grasp, elbowing him in the ribs as he used every ounce of power he possessed to reverse their positions. With a _whump_ Achilles was underneath him, his chest heaving. He arched his head up like a snake and licked his other eye before Patroclus could get a chance to pull his head back.

“Stop it!” Patroclus hissed, and wasted no time climbing on to him, pressing his mouth to his, their lips opening and closing in tandem together like the petals of a flower in the morning, wet with sweet dew. Where his hands were rough, his mouth was tender, something Patroclus could loose himself in. Patroclus rose up to meet him, his hand coming to run through the boy's golden tangled hair, and Achilles sat up and crawled into his lap, long golden legs wrapping around his waist there on the floor. They were so close now, chest to chest, and their groins met; gasping, they instinctively pressed against each other, and they kissed messily for several minutes.

Patroclus could practically hear Achilles' heart rate speed up. He looked over his shoulder and arched away, his arm reaching for the abandoned salve behind him. He dipped his fingers into the creamy mixture as Achilles closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Patroclus' chest as they paused.

Patroclus felt very nervous now as he reached around behind the boy. His fingers found his taint, causing Achilles to jump slightly before relaxing, as Patroclus began to rub his fingers in tiny circles. Patroclus felt the boy let out a shaky sigh. “Okay?” he breathed.

“Mmm...” was the only reply. He couldn't see Achilles' face as his fingers moved, exploring, coming to ghost over the puckered skin of his anus. He could feel Achilles' heart beat, light and quick like a rabbit, and feel his heavy length where it was pressed against him in his lap. Achilles had begun to cant his hips in tiny little thrusts.

Patroclus pushed one finger in experimentally, breaching him, and Achilles let out a high sound that went straight to his cock. He did it again, slowly, his hands trembling, and Achilles turned his head around so it was pressed under his chin the other way; he seemed lost in the sensation, draped limply against his chest.

“Don't st-...do that again,” he breathed against him, and Patroclus, swallowing, began to work his finger in and out in earnest. Achilles whimpered when he drew his hand away, scrabbling to dip his hand into the salve again before returning. He knew when he had found that delicate spot that the apothecary master had told him of when Achilles jerked, his fingers digging into Patroclus' skin. A breathy note of surprise worked its way out of him and he burrowed his head into Patroclus' neck. Patroclus brushed his finger over the spot again and Achilles let forth a high keening whimper. He rose up, moving against him now as Patroclus added another finger, wriggling against him as if it was almost too much to bear. He felt the boy begin to tremble now and could not blame him. Patroclus was grinning to himself, in awe of how he looked. High wrecked sounds were tearing themselves out of his throat now unheeded as he tipped his head back in ecstasy, exposing that long pale neck. 

"Gods.." he muttered, eyes closed.

The angle of Patroclus' arm was quite awkward but he did not care. The response Achilles was showing was nothing like he had ever seen. The boy gripped the front of his chiton, rocking in earnest, fucking himself on his fingers, working himself into a frenzy Patroclus had never witnessed before. 

He felt him begin to shudder, gasping, reaching the point of no return.

The boy's delicate bow of his lips was parted, his long blonde lashes sweeping his cheeks. Patroclus felt him sag to his chest as every tense muscle in his body relaxed. He held him until his breathing evened out completely, running his fingers lightly over his skin, down his arms and back, through his hair, over his skull. He held him until he knew with a certainty Achilles had fallen asleep against him, there on the floor, completely wrung out. Patroclus could not find it in himself to be disappointed. He lay backwards carefully until he was flat on his back with Achilles' limp form on top of him. He felt his even breathing ghosting over his bare skin, and Patroclus stared up at the ceiling, the love he felt for this boy so overwhelming in that moment he felt his eyes prick with tears.

“I came all over you,” Achilles rumbled suddenly. His eyes were still closed.

Patroclus smiled. “That's okay.”

He felt Achilles sigh deeply.


	5. Chapter 5

On the morning of the midwinter festival Achilles, with his ineffable sweet tooth, had dragged Patroclus to the _Agora_ with a craving for _Gastrin_ pastries and had found a dirt cheap three legged couch he insisted he wanted at a furniture stall.

They both enjoyed the privilege of going to market and enjoying the commotion of people selling their lifeblood. As it was right before the feast it was particularly active as most of the folk in the palace had the day off and were enjoying the festivities, but that day Patroclus wanted nothing more than to stay in bed late. It was very cold and the air smelled strongly of ice. He stumped behind Achilles moodily, cloak drawn tight around his face and his hands stuffed into his armpits to stay warm as they weaved through the crowd, occasionally waving at other boys he knew who were also out. Achilles bought him some candied figs (rolled in flour and fried to caramelise their sweetness) to appease him.

Patroclus looked on as he haggled aggressively with the stall holder for the couch, then begrudgingly helped him lift it and carry it back to the palace.

“What do we need this for exactly?”

“It's going in the _Andron_ for the midwinter feast. We need more chairs so that when I beat you at _Petteia_ I will be sitting like a king.”

“Ha! You're going to need more than a spare chair leg to make this piece of junk a throne. And need I remind you of how things played out last year?”

“I won last year,” Achilles said, pointedly staring fixedly at the ground as they walked.

Patroclus snorted gleefully.”That must be why Leontes is running a betting pool two to one in my favour.”

“He isn't.”

“Ask the others! Have heart: this is the one time a year in which they can take glee in watching you wilfully lose at something.”

“Its not wilful.”

“You sure about that? You had me convinced.”

Achilles shot him a black look, and the remainder of the walk back up to the grounds there seemed to be a reversal of moods. Achilles was the sorest loser Patroclus had ever seen and he took delight in it. By the time they got into the grounds thick flakes had begun to drift down from the sky. They set the couch down underneath the portico and Patroclus stepped out into the courtyard, hand extended, palm held flat in wonder. Snow was rare in winter, and if it came it never stayed for long. Patroclus looked over at Achilles and their eyes met, both grinning. Achilles tilted his head back, pink tongue extending, eyes closed.

“What if it sticks?”

“It never sticks.”

“What if it did?”

“My father told me there are some regions of the north, beyond the borders where the snow falls like a blanket, so thick you cannot see anything.”

“I would like to see that. If its going to be this cold it might as well snow and give us something to amuse ourselves with.”

Patroclus watched the flakes hitting the mud and stubbornly melting on impact.

 _Stay_ , he whispered. _Stay_.

 

He spent the rest of the morning kicking a small sewn leather footbag filled with tiny pellets from one foot to the next and alternatively gently teasing Achilles about his failings in woodworking as he watched him attempt to construct a new chair leg himself before finally giving up around lunch and paying a carpenter to have it repaired.

Then it was time to go to the hall to prepare the dough for their loaves.

There was keen rivalry between cities as to who produced the best bread, and at the festival it was tradition for every able man to on this day stoop to manual labour and produce their own roll for the feast. What proceeded was a kind of bread Olympics distinct to Phthia.

In the morning those that did not have one fashioned their stamp out of clay to make their mark. Patroclus still had his stamp from the year before rattling around and so did not have to make a new one. The insignia was a simple leaf. Achilles' was an arrow. They would make their roll into six sections, stamp their dough with their insignia so it could be recognised, and in groups of six over dinner swap portions of one's loaf with everyone in their group. No man could vote for himself, and in this way a victor was nominated. Each man would then be judged against the other victors, until at last one champion bread baker was decided. This man would then go to the capital with all the other victors from other cities, and there they would be judged again. Much pride was bestowed upon the best baker in all of Greece.

In the hall the comforting smell of yeast filled the air. The great hearth was blazing and the air was filled with chatter and laughter as line after line of people stood at the banquet tables, working on their loaves. There was flour everywhere, covering the floor, somehow covering Patroclus.

“This tradition is ridiculous,” he said as they kneaded their dough. “Everyone's bread always tastes the same, unless you really fuck it up. In my city they always just sent someone from the kitchen to compete.”

“Maybe that is why the house of Menoitides has never been crowned with the laurel wreath. Maybe there is a master baker no one knows about,” Achilles said next to him.

“Who cares. Who wants to be famous for baking bread anyway.”

“Not all of us can be the undoubted champion in sparring, spear throw and wrestling.”

Patroclus flicked flour at him.

“Maybe you should focus on your baking,” Achilles continued pointedly.

Patroclus was shaking his head in consternation, lips pursed. “I am going to destroy you tonight,” he said, locking eyes with him.

Achilles raised an eyebrow. “That a promise?”

“It's a guarantee.”

Next to him, Acontes was once more attempting to slip a handful of flour down the back of another boy's chiton, and was soon quickly reprimanded for wasting valuable foodstuffs, but as it was a time of festivities and everyone was lax no punishment was given. The door to the hall banged open and a serving boy came running in to speak hurriedly to someone nearest the entrance. Patroclus looked around at the source of the noise but thought nothing of it. Soon however, a whisper of sound was moving throughout the hall, and those nearest the doors were leaving. The commotion grew like a wave washing to shore. “What is going on?” Achilles asked, neck craning.

“It's sticking!” a boy shouted, and soon the press of people for the door increased as did the murmuring. Patroclus took the moment of Achilles' distraction to wipe his sticky dough fingers on the other boy's chiton.

He whirled around, but Patroclus was already moving away towards the doors.

“Come on!”

 

The great courtyard was covered in an inch of white.

Achilles, as if in a trance, stooped down and scooped up a handful. Patroclus looked over just at the wrong time.

“N-” he started to say, but it was too late. His aim was perfect. He hit Patroclus square in the side of the face. Spluttering and spitting out bits of mud and ice, he slowly turned and looked back at him.

“You're a dead man.”

Achilles cackled and spun away, leaping across the grounds, long legs pumping. Other boys were already throwing snow at each other. Patroclus skidded after him, snow clutched in each hand. The first three missed the boy in motion yet he kept wind-milling his arms to release them until he finally took him in the back. Patroclus stopped running, and as soon as he did felt hands at his collar, pulling his _himation_ back to expose his neck. He instinctively ducked, shuffling away at a bow muttering “Nonononono-” as the relentless hand held on fast. Next came the icy cold against his neck as a handful of wet was shoved down the back. As a parting gesture, Acontes slapped his rear in jest stingingly hard.

“Ow!”

Patroclus hopped away. Down the sloping ground, Achilles was already engaged with other boys. It did not last long as their hands quickly became numb and pink from the cold. When they had had their fill they returned to the hall sopping wet, shivering and grinning to finish their loaves. Then came the feast and afterwards songs and tales told in the _Andron_ that lasted for several hours, legends re-enacted by expressive actors playing out their parts. Patroclus felt warm and sleepy from both the fire and the mulled wine he had consumed, but the night far from over. When they retired at last, the games came out, and a small cluster of boys drew around him and Achilles in anticipation. Apparently the match was an entertainment in itself, and the boys were not disappointed. An hour and a half later the crowd had grown.

 

Patroclus was not prone to giggling, yet the sounds escaping from him could only be described as such, hinging on the maniacal, as Achilles' face became more and more red with frustration. Patroclus was sitting cross legged on his chair, back ramrod straight as Achilles hunched over the board, two handfuls of his hair clenched in his fists.

“You know, if you played with me more than once a year you might have a fighting chance,” Patroclus taunted. 

“Shut. Up!”

“I'm not saying I know anything about strategy, but if this board was a battlefield you might want to consider tucking your tail between your legs.”

“It's all part of the plan.”

“Well, if the plan was to lose spectacularly, you seem to be doing a bang up job.”

“Just take em out and measure, boys,” Leontes said from his prime seat off to the side.

“Leontes, what did we say about sideline commentary?” Achilles said from between clipped teeth.

“Only if you're getting completely creamed?”

“No, that is not what we said about sideline commentary.”

Achilles made his move, and a smirking Patroclus countered.

“Ohh, and that is what we call getting, in the delicate sense, royally _fucked over_!” Leontes said mirthfully. Another three moves and it was all over.

Patroclus in triumph tossed an olive high into the air and caught it with his mouth. Achilles, lips curling, pulled himself into a tight ball on the couch. One could practically see the dark cloud forming above his head. Patroclus stood and extended his hand to him to shake. Achilles extended his wrist limply, and Patroclus shook his fingers, grinning.

While Patroclus preened, Leontes called in his bets. Everyone seemed pretty happy about it. They had all bet on Patroclus. He offered the board to another boy.

“Demio?”

“Sure, why not,” the boy replied, smiling.

 

Hours later, the room had gradually emptied as everyone stumbled off to bed. Achilles had fallen asleep lying on his stomach, wedged onto his newly acquired narrow couch. It couldn't have been very comfortable as the wooden frame was covered in nothing but deerskin. One long arm was arching elegantly to the floor and his feet were hanging off the end. Patroclus went to rouse him, tucking the boy's hair back behind his ear gently.

“Mm,” Achilles said, and shifted so that one leg slid off.

“Come to bed,” Patroclus whispered. Achilles opened his eyes blearily.

“My arm is numb,” he muttered. “I need a bigger couch.”

“You mean like a bed?”

Achilles made a perturbed sound and managed to extricate himself. Sitting up, he tilted his head to the side. His eyes were closed again.

“Come on...” Patroclus whispered as he took Achilles' upper arm and hauled the half asleep boy to a standing position. Achilles buried his face into Patroclus neck and wrapped his other arm around him. Patroclus awkwardly shuffled them out of the room and towards the stairs.

“You're not helping much,” he said amusedly. They managed to work their way up the stairs and down the hall to their rooms. Fortunately they were not far.

 

Patroclus went to wash his face as Achilles changed his clothes and collapsed into their bed, shivering. Their room was very cold compared to the warmth of the _Andron_.

Patroclus lifted the covers and curled up behind him, wrapping his arms around the boy.

“Are you mad at me?” Patroclus said into his skin.

“Why would I be mad? I won,” Achilles muttered.

“Oh, yes, I forgot,” Patroclus said amusedly, then paused. “You win at everything. Can't you give me this one thing?”

“I would give it to you if you had won.”

Patroclus pulled his arm back and quickly fitted his fingers, still cold from the washbasin, under Achilles' robe against the warm smooth skin of his lower back. Achilles yelped and pulled away.

“I hate it when you do that!”

“Say it, then.”

“No.”

Another yelp.

“Say it!”

Achilles thrashed, bed clothes flying until he was turned around facing him.

 

“You win.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote you guys some trash. My tumblr is evilhouseplant.tumblr.com


End file.
